Once upon a time, many ages ago, there lived, near the shores of Lake
Superior, a hunter, who was considered the most intrepid and expert in
his vocation of all the hunters of the wilderness. His lodge, which
was built with the steady reference to the wants of nature, which are
always seen in the location of an Indian village or habitation, was
situated in a remote part of the forest, at the distance of many days'
journey from any other dwelling. Here, alone, and free from the bloody
spirit of warfare which distinguished the men of his tribe, his days
glided on like the quiet flow of a river that has no fall. He spent
the period of light in the noble amusement of hunting, and his
evenings in relating to his beautiful and bright-eyed wife the
incidents which had befallen him that day in the chace; or he detailed
those which had happened to him before she became the star of his
lodge; or he spoke of their long-tried, and mutual love; or he fondly
sketched scenes of future bliss; or he held on his knee, and pressed
to his heart, the little pledge of their love, which now, for the
first time, began to venture across the floor of his cabin without a
hand to sustain it. As game was then very abundant, he seldom failed
to bring home in the evening a store of meats sufficient to last them
until the succeeding evening; and, while they were seated beside the
pleasant fire of their lodge, partaking of the fruits of his labour,
he would relate those tales, and enforce those precepts, which every
good Indian thinks necessary for the instruction of his wife and
children. This was his occupation, these were his pleasures. Who could
ask a better or nobler than the first? who desire more intense, or
purer, than the last? Far removed from all sources of disquiet,
surrounded with all that they deemed necessary to their comfort,
tenderly loving, and thence completely happy, their lives passed away
with scarcely less bliss than that of the disembodied spirits of the
good in the Happy Shades. The breast of the hunter had never felt the
pangs of remorse, for he had been a just man in all his dealings. He
had never violated the laws of his tribe, by encroaching upon the
hunting-grounds of his neighbours, or by taking that which did not of
right belong to him. No offended hunter waylaid his steps to revenge
an interference with his rights, no haughty chief came to the door of
his lodge, to say, "Chippewa, give back that which you have stolen."
No dream of the fame to be acquired by war--by the frequent slaughter
of unoffending women and children, or even of hardy warriors, his
equals in strength and valour--danced before his eyes, filling his
sleep with bloody images and sights of horror. The white man had not
yet come to fill the mind of the poor Indian with cravings for things
which were not needed till they were known; as yet, he had not been
taught that clothes and blankets were necessary to his comfort, or
that game could not be killed without guns. The skin of the buffalo,
the moose, the bear, and the deer, answered the purpose of protecting
him from the heat and the cold; and the bow and arrow well supplied
the place of the gun, especially when pointed by the steady hand and
unerring eye of an Indian hunter. Having then, no more than now,
occasion to fell large trees, the axes of stone in use among us when
white men landed on our shores answered all the simple purposes of
Indian life. Iron and powder, which, with _one_ other fatal gift, have
already led to the almost total, and will soon effect the total,
extinction of the race by furnishing us with a surer mode of
destruction, had not yet found their way into those remote and
peaceful forests, nor had the white man poured that one other fatal
gift, his wrathful phial of liquid fire[A] upon our devoted Indian
race. Our wants were then few, easily supplied, and totally
independent of white men.
[Footnote A: "Wrathful phial of liquid fire" is a literal translation
of the Chippewa word for ardent spirit.]
Peacefully glided away the life of the Chippewa hunter, happy in his
ignorance, but still happier in his simplicity. Relying fully upon the
superintending care of an overruling Great Spirit, whom he had always
served, no anxious dread of present want, no fears for the future
filled his bosom. His life was as unruffled as the surface of a lake
in the calm of the summer.
One evening, during the winter season, when snow covered the earth,
and ice locked up the waters of the Great Lake, it chanced that this
happy Chippewa hunter remained out much later than usual. His wife
sate lonesome in her tent, and began to be agitated with fears that
some fatal accident had befallen him. Darkness had already veiled the
face of nature, and gathering gloom rested upon the brow of night. She
listened attentively, to catch the sounds of coming footsteps, but
nothing could be heard but the wind whistling around the sides of
their slender lodge, and through the creaking branches of the
surrounding forest of oaks and pines. Time passed away in this state
of suspense; he came not, and every moment augmented her fears, and
added to the loneliness of her heart. With the little pledge of their
mutual love clasped to her bosom, she sat counting every moment as it
flew, with difficulty commanding her tears, and singing them down with
fragments of some of the simple songs which all the sons of the earth
are in the habit of using, to while away hours rendered weary by any
passing occurrence. At length her heart gave way, and she burst into a
deep and fervent passion of tears. Suddenly she heard the sound of
approaching footsteps upon the frozen surface of snow. Not doubting
that it must be her beloved husband, she quickly undid the loop, which
held, by an inner fastening, the door of the lodge, and, throwing it
open, beheld two strange females standing in front of it. She could
not hesitate what course to pursue. She bade them enter and warm
themselves, knowing, from the distance to the nearest cabin, that they
must have walked a long way. When they had entered she invited them to
remain. She soon observed that they were total strangers in that part
of the country, and the more closely she scrutinized their manners,
their dress, and their dignified deportment, the stronger grew her
conviction that they were persons of no ordinary character. No
efforts, no persuasions, could induce them to come near the fire; they
took their seats in a remote part of the lodge, and drew their
garments about their persons in such a manner as almost completely to
hide their faces. They seemed shy and taciturn, spoke not, and
remained as motionless as stones fixed in the earth. Occasionally,
though but seldom, glimpses could be caught of their faces, which were
pale and ghastly, even to the hue of death. Their eyes she saw were
vivid but sunken, their cheek-bones as prominent as if all flesh had
left them, and their whole persons, as far as could be judged,
emaciated and fleshless. Seeing that her strange guests, of whom she
now began to feel much fear, avoided all conversation, and appeared
anxious to escape observation, she forbore to question them, and sat
in silence until her husband entered. He had been led farther than
usual in pursuit of game, but returned with the carcase of a large and
very fat deer. No sooner had he laid his spoil on the floor of his
cabin, than the mysterious females, exclaiming, "Behold! what a fine,
fat animal!" immediately ran up, and pulled off pieces of the whitest
fat, which they ate with great avidity. As this is esteemed the
choicest part of the animal, and is generally, by Indian courtesy,
left to the share of the master of the lodge, such conduct appeared
very strange to the hunter. Supposing, however, that they had been a
long time without food, for he attributed their extreme leanness and
ghastliness to hunger and privation, he forbore to accuse them of
rudeness, and his wife, following her husband's example, was equally
guarded in her language. On the following evening, the same scene was
repeated. He brought home the best portions of the deer he had killed,
and, while in the act of laying it down before his wife, according to
custom, the two females again ran up, and tore off, as on the first
night, the choicest and most delicate portions, which they ate with
the same eagerness and unappeasable avidity as before. Such unhandsome
behaviour, such repeated abuses of his hospitality, were calculated to
raise displeasure on the brow of the hunter, but still the deference
due to strange guests induced him to pass it over in silence.
Observing their partiality for this part of the animal, he resolved
the next day to anticipate their wants, by cutting off and tying up a
portion of the fat for each. These parcels he placed upon the top of
his burthen, and, as soon as he entered the lodge, he gave to each
her portion. Still the guests appeared dissatisfied, and took more
from the carcass lying before the wife. Many persons would have
repressed this forwardness, by some look, word, or action, but this
man, being a just and prudent man, slow to provocation, and patient
under afflictions of every kind, abstained from any of them. He was,
perhaps, the more disposed to this quiet spirit of forbearance, from a
suspicion that his guests were persons of distinguished rank, who
chose thus to visit him in disguise, and also from reflecting, that
the best luck had attended him in hunting, since the residence of the
mysterious strangers beneath his roof.
In other respects, the deportment of the females was unexceptionable,
though marked with some peculiarities. They were quiet, modest, and
discreet. They maintained a cautious silence through the day, neither
uttering a word nor moving, but folded up in their skin mantles they
remained in the corner of their lodge. When it became dark, they would
get up, and, taking those instruments which were then used in breaking
up and preparing fuel, would repair to the forest. There they would
busy themselves in seeking dry limbs and fragments of trees, blown
down by tempests. When a sufficient quantity had been gathered to last
till the succeeding night, they carried it home upon their shoulders;
then, carefully putting every thing in its proper place within the
lodge, they resumed their seats and their studied silence. They were
ever careful to return from their nocturnal labours before the dawning
of day, and were never known to go out before the hour of dusk. In
this manner they repaid, in some measure, the kindness of the hunter,
and relieved his wife from her most laborious duties.
Thus nearly the whole winter passed away, every day leading to some
new development of character or office of friendship, which served to
endear the parties to each other. Their faces daily lost something of
that deathlike hue which had at first marked them, and they visibly
improved in strength. They began to throw off some of that cold
reserve and forbidding austerity, which had kept the hunter so long in
ignorance of their true character. Every day, their appearance and
behaviour approximated more nearly to that of the beings of ordinary
life. One evening the hunter returned very late, after having spent
the day in toilsome exertion. Again he deposited the product of his
hunt at the feet of his wife, and again the silent females began to
tear off the flesh as before, though with still greater rudeness and
ill-breeding. The patience of the wife was completely lost, she could
no longer controul her feelings, and suffered the thought to pass her
mind, "Their conduct is certainly very strange! how can I bear with it
any longer!" She did not, however, give utterance to her feelings in
words. But an immediate change was seen in the females. They became
unusually reserved, and gave evident signs of being uneasy in their
situation. The good hunter immediately perceived this change, and,
fearful that they had taken offence, so soon as they had retired to
rest, he enquired of his wife whether any harsh expression had escaped
her lips during the day. She replied that she had uttered nothing to
give the least offence. He now tried to compose himself to sleep, but
he felt restless and uneasy, for he could plainly hear the sighs and
half-smothered lamentations of the two females. Every moment added to
his conviction that his guests had taken deep offence, and, as he
could not banish this idea from his mind, he raised himself on his
couch, and addressed the sobbing inmates thus:
"Tell me, ye women that have so long been the inmates of my lodge,
what is it that causes you pain of mind, and makes you unceasingly
utter these sighs? Has the wife of my bosom given you any cause of
offence while I was absent in the chase? My fears persuade me that, in
some unguarded moment, she has forgotten what is due to the rights of
hospitality, and used expressions ill befitting the mysterious
character which you seem to sustain. Tell me, ye strangers from a
strange country--ye women who appear to be not of this world--what is
it that causes you pain of mind, and makes you utter these unceasing
sighs?"
"It is not for this that we weep; it is not for this that we sigh,"
replied the mysterious women. "No unkind expressions have been used
towards us since our residence in your hospitable lodge. We have
received from you all the affectionate attentions which we could
expect, far more than could reasonably be asked of one who procures
his food and supports his family by a life of incessant toil and
labour. We thank you for all your kindness. No, it is not for this: it
is not for ourselves that we weep. We are weeping for the fate of
mankind. We are weeping for the fate of mortals whom death awaits at
every stage of their existence--weak mortals! whom death cuts down
equally while the bloom of youth is on their cheek, and when their
hair is whitened by the frosts of time--proud, vain men! whom hunger
pinches, cold benumbs, and poverty emaciates--frail beings! who are
born in tears, who are nurtured in tears, who die in tears, and whose
whole course is marked upon the thirsty sands of life in a broad line
of tears. It is for these that we weep.
"You have spoken truly, brother; we are not of this world. We are
Spirits from the land of the dead, sent upon the earth to try the
sincerity of the living. It is not for the dead but the living that we
mourn. It is not for the dead, whose flesh quietly reposes in the
dust, and whose souls repair to the mansions of happiness, that we
mourn, but for the living who are subjected to many, many pains, and
beset with innumerable troubles and anxieties. It was by no means
necessary that your wife should express her thoughts by words; we knew
them ere they were spoken. We saw that for once displeasure towards us
had arisen in her heart. It is enough--our mission is ended. We came
hither but to try you. We knew before we came that you were a kind
husband, an affectionate father, a temperate and honest man. We saw,
from the mansions of the blest, the patience with which you bore your
disappointments in the chace; the gratitude to the Great Spirit which
you always evinced; the tribute to his goodness which you always paid
when your hunts were successful, and you were enabled to return to
your cabin with the wealth of the forest. Still we find that you have
some of the weaknesses of a mortal, and your wife is found still more
wanting in our eyes. But it is not for you alone that we weep; it is
for the fate of mankind.
"Often, very often, has the widowed husband exclaimed, 'Oh death, how
cruel, how relentless thou art, to take from me my best friend, my
beloved wife, in the spring of her youth, in the prime of her
strength, in the morning of her usefulness, in the bloom of her
beauty! Just when I had come to know her best, and to love her most,
thou didst take her from my arms, leaving me to pine in unavailing
regrets. If thou wilt permit her, just Judge! to return once more to
my arms, and again be the star of my humble abode, my gratitude shall
never cease; my thankfulness shall be daily manifested in songs and
sacrifices to thy name. The high hill shall hear the cry of a man with
clay in his hair, and the valley shall be filled with the smoke of a
sacrificial flame. I will raise my voice continually to thank the
Master of Life for the return to my arms of his excellent gift. And to
her shall the return be productive of unbounded felicity. I will
devote my time to study how I can best promote her happiness, while
she is permitted to remain, and our lives shall roll away, like a
pleasant stream through a vale of flowers.' If a parent has been
bereaved of a child rendered dear by its innocence and sportive
fondness, he has said, while tears were furrowing his cheek, 'Great
Manitou, wilt thou return this beloved child for a few more years to
my bosom? It was but young and little. Its voice, softer than the
breath of spring, had not fashioned its tones of tenderness into
words. I had not heard it thank me for the gift of life; it was a
flower blasted in the bud. If thou wilt permit its return, it shall be
taught to sing thy praises; it shall be made to walk in the straight
path; it shall be a just hunter and a true warrior.' The bereft lover
has besought the Great Spirit for the return of his deceased mistress:
his petition has painted the charms of her voice sweet as the south
wind; her step light and graceful as the fawn's; her locks clustering
like grapes. And, 'Oh!' he has said, 'will it disarrange the harmony
of thy system, if she may but for a little while return to my arms; if
but for a few, a very few years, she may illumine the darkness of my
lodge by the splendour of her eyes, and send joy to my soul by the
soft tones of her voice, and the sound of her steps?' Thus, also, has
the mother prayed for her daughter; the wife for her husband; the
sister for her brother; the friend for his bosom-companion, until the
sounds of mourning, and the cries of the living, have pierced the very
recesses of the dead. Among those who have wished their departed
friends to return, were many who were cruel and unkind to them while
living. These have not failed to promise the most endearing conduct,
should their relatives be allowed to return.
"The Great Spirit has, at length, consented to make a trial of their
sincerity, by sending us upon the earth at a very severe season of the
year, and in a time of general scarcity. He did this to see how we
should be received, coming as strangers, no one knowing whence. It was
necessary that this severity of proof should be exacted. Three months
were allowed us to make the trial; and if, during that time, no
irksomeness of feeling had been evinced, no angry passions excited, at
the place where we should have taken up our abode, all those in the
land of spirits, whom their relations had desired to return, would
have been restored to them. We had already passed more than half the
time assigned to us, and had already dared to hope for a successful
termination of our mission. Had your wife maintained those feelings of
unmixed generosity and kindness which have heretofore marked her
conduct, the ransom would have been complete. When the leaves began to
bud, and the birds to sing their sweet songs of love, and to warble
their gentle burdens of gratitude for the return of their beloved
spring, our mission would have been successfully terminated. The
deceased husband and wife would then have been each returned to the
arms of his or her rejoicing partner, the maiden to the arms of her
tender lover, the infant to the bosom of its adoring mother. But it is
now too late. Our trial is finished, and we are called to the pleasant
fields, and beautiful shades, whence we came. It is not for those who
remain in those shades; it is not for the souls we left in the abode
of happy spirits, that we grieve, but for you that are left on earth.
"Brothers, it is necessary and proper, that one man should die to make
room for another who is born in his place; otherwise the world would
be filled to overflowing. It is just, that the goods gathered by one
should be left to be divided by others, for in the land of spirits
there is no want. There is neither sorrow nor hunger, death nor pain,
in that land. Pleasant fields filled with game lie spread before the
eye, and birds of most beautiful plumage and shapes are singing on
every bush. Every stream is filled with fat fish, and every hill is
crowned with groves of trees, whose fruit is sweet and pleasant to the
taste and beautiful to the eye. No piercing winds rack the bones, no
storms, no whirlwinds, assail the ear. All kinds of games have been
invented to amuse, and many, very many, instruments to play upon. It
is not here, brother, but _there_, that men begin truly to live. It is
not for those that rejoice through those pleasant groves, but for you
that are left behind, that we weep.
"Brother, take our thanks for your hospitality. Regret not our
departure. We go not in anger with thee, nor with thy wife. Fear not
evil. Thy luck shall still be good in the chace, and a bright sky
prevail over thy lodge. Mourn not for us, for no corn will spring up
from tears; but join us in lamentations for the fate of mankind. Mourn
for mortals whom death awaits at every stage of their existence; whom
death cuts down equally while the bloom of youth is on their cheek,
and when their hair is whitened by the frosts of time--proud, vain
men, whom hunger pinches, cold benumbs, and poverty emaciates--frail
beings, who are born in tears, nurtured in tears, die in tears, and
whose whole course is marked upon the thirsty sands of life by a broad
line of tears. It is for those that we weep."
The spirits ceased; but the hunter had no power over his voice to
reply. As they continued their address, he saw a light beaming from
their faces, and gradually a blue vapour filling the whole lodge with
an unnatural light. As soon as the females ceased speaking, a deep and
dense darkness prevailed. He listened, but the sobs of the spirits
had ceased. He heard the door of his tent open and shut, but he never
saw more of his mysterious visitors. Their promise was not forgotten;
he found the success which they spoke of. He became a most celebrated
hunter, and never wanted for any thing necessary to his ease. He
became the father of many children, all of whom grew up to manhood:
and health, peace, and long life, were the rewards of his
hospitality.